——Most pleasing of thy sex,
Born to delight and never vex;
Whose kindness gently can controul
My wayward turbulence of soul.
Pry’thee, my dearest, dost thou read,5
The Morning Prints, and ever heed
Minutes, which tell how time’s mispent,
In either House of Parliament?
See T——, with the front of Jove!
But not like Jove with thunder grac’d1,10
In Westminster’s superb alcove
Like the unhappy Theseus plac’d2.
Day after day indignant swells
His generous breast, while still he hears
Impeachment’s fierce relentless yells,15
Which stir his bile and grate his ears.
And what a dull vain barren shew
St. Stephen’s luckless Chapel fills;
Our notions of respect how low,
While fools bring in their idle Bills.20
Noodles3, who rave for abolition
Of th’ African’s improv’d condition4,
At your own cost fine projects try;
Dont rob—from pure humanity.
Go, W———, with narrow scull,25
Go home, and preach away at Hull,
No longer to the Senate5 cackle,
In strains which suit the Tabernacle;
I hate your little wittling sneer,
Your pert and self-sufficient leer,30
Mischief to Trade sits on thy lip,
Insects will gnaw the noblest ship;
Go, W———, be gone, for shame,
Thou dwarf, with a big-sounding name.
Poor inefficient B——, we see35
No capability in thee,
Th’ immortal spirit of thy Sire
Has borne away th’ æthereal fire,
And left thee but the earthy dregs,—
Let’s never have thee on thy legs;40
’Tis too provoking, sure, to feel,
A kick from such a puny heel.
Pedantick pupil of old Sherry,
Whose shrugs and jerks would make us merry,
If not by tedious languor wrung—45
Hold thy intolerable tongue.
Drawcansir Dolben would destroy
Both slavery and licentious joy;
Foe to all sorts of planters6, he
Will suffer neither bond nor free.50
Go we to the Committee room,
There gleams of light conflict with gloom,
While unread rheams in chaos lye,
Our water closets to supply.
What frenzies will a rabble seize55
In lax luxurious days, like these;
The People’s Majesty, forsooth,
Must fix our rights, define our truth;
Weavers7 become our Lords of Trade,
And every clown throw by his spade,60
T’ instruct our ministers of state,
And foreign commerce regulate:
Ev’n bony Scotland with her dirk,
Nay, her starv’d presbyterian kirk8,
With ignorant effrontery prays65
Britain to dim the western rays,
Which while they on our island fall
Give warmth and splendour to us all.
See in a stall three feet by four,
Where door is window, window door,70
Saloop a hump-back’d cobler drink;
“With him the muse shall sit and think;”
He shall in sentimental strain,
That negroes are oppress’d, complain.
What mutters the decrepit creature?75
The Dignity of Human Nature9!
Windham, I won’t suppress a gibe.
Whilst Thou art with the whining tribe;
Thou who hast sail’d in a balloon,
And touch’d, intrepid, at the moon,80
(Hence, as the Ladies say you wander,
By much too fickle a Philander:)
Shalt Thou, a Roman free and rough,
Descend to weak blue stocking stuff,
And cherish feelings soft and kind,85
Till you emasculate your mind.
Let Courtenay sneer, and gibe, and hack,
We know Ham’s sons are always black;
On sceptick themes he wildly raves,
Yet Africk’s sons were always slaves;90
I’d have the rogue beware of libel,
And spare a jest—when on the Bible.
Burke, art Thou here too? thou, whose pen,
Can blast the fancied rights of men:
Pray, by what logick are those rights95
Allow’d to Blacks—deny’d to Whites?
But Thou! bold Faction’s chief Antistes,
Thou, more than Samson Agonistes!
Who, Rumour tells us, would pull down
Our charter’d rights, our church, our crown;
Of talents vast, but with a mind
Unaw’d, ungovern’d, unconfin’d;100
Best humour’d man, worst politician,
Most dangerous, desp’rate state physician;
Thy manly character why stain105
By canting, when ’tis all in vain?
For thy tumultuous reign is o’er;
The People’s Man thou art no more.
And Thou, in whom the magick name
Of William Pitt still gathers fame,110
Who could at once exalted stand,
Spurning subordinate command;
Ev’n when a stripling sit with ease,
The mighty helm of state to seise;
Whom now (a thousand storms endur’d)115
Years of experience have matur’d;
For whom, in glory’s race untir’d,
Th’ events of nations have conspir’d;
For whom, eer many suns revolv’d,
Holland has crouch’d, and France dissolv’d;120
And Spain, in a Don Quixote fit,
Has bullied only to submit;
Why stoop to nonsense? why cajole
Blockheads who vent their rigmarole?
And yet, where influence must rule,125
’Tis sometimes wise to play the fool;
Thus, like a witch, you raise a storm,
Whether the Parliament’s Reform,
A set of Irish Propositions,
Impeachment—on your own conditions,130
Or Richmond’s wild fortifications,
Enough to ruin twenty nations,
Or any thing you know can’t fail,
To be a tub to Party’s whale.
Then whilst they nibble, growl, and worry,135
All keen and busy, hurry-scurry;
Britannia’s ship you onward guide,
Wrapt in security and pride.
Accept fair praise; but while I live
Your Regency I can’t forgive;140
My Tory soul with anger swell’d,
When I a parcel’d Crown beheld;
Prerogative put under hatches,
A Monarchy of shreds and patches;
And lo! a Phantom! to create,145
A huge Hermaphrodite of State!
A monster, more alarming still
Than Fox’s raw-head India Bill!
Thurlow, forbear thy awful frown;
I beg you may not look me down150
My honest fervour do not scout,
I too like thee can be devout,
And in a solemn invocation10,
Of loyalty make protestation.
Courtiers, who chanc’d to guess aright,155
And bask now in the Royal sight,
Gold sticks and silver, and white wands,
Ensigns of favour in your hands,
Glitt’ring with stars, and envied seen
Adorn’d with ribbands blue, red, green!160
I charge you of deceit keep clear,
And poison not the Sovereign’s ear:
O ne’er let Majesty suppose
The Prince’s friends must be His foes.
There is not one amongst you all165
Whose sword is readier at his call;
An ancient Baron of the land,
I by my King shall ever stand;
But when it pleases Heav’n to shroud
The Royal image in a cloud,170
That image in the Heir I see,
The Prince is then as King to me.
Let’s have, altho’ the skies should lour,
No interval of Regal pow’r11.
Where have I wander’d? do I dream?175
Sure slaves of power are not my theme;
But honest slaves, the sons of toil,
Who cultivate the Planter’s soil.
He who to thwart God’s system12 tries,
Bids mountains sink, and vallies rise;180
Slavery, subjection, what you will,
Has ever been, and will be still:
Trust me, that in this world of woe
Mankind must different burthens know;
Each bear his own, th’ Apostle spoke;185
And chiefly they who bear the yoke.
From wise subordination’s plan
Springs the chief happiness of man;
Yet from that source to numbers flow
Varieties of pain and woe;190
Look round this land of freedom, pray,
And all its lower ranks survey;
Bid the hard-working labourer speak,
What are his scanty gains a week?
All huddled in a smoaky shed,195
How are his wife and children fed?
Are not the poor in constant fear
Of the relentless Overseer?
London! Metropolis of bliss!
Ev’n there sad sights we cannot miss;200
Beggars at every corner stand,
With doleful look and trembling hand;
Hear the shrill piteous cry of sweep,
See wretches riddling an ash heap;
The streets some for old iron scrape,205
And scarce the crush of wheels escape;
Some share with dogs the half-eat bones,
From dunghills pick’d with weary groans.
Dear Cumberland, whose various powers210
Preserve thy life from languid hours,
Thou scholar, statesman, traveller, wit,
Who prose and verse alike canst hit;
Whose gay West-Indian on our stage,
Alone might check this stupid rage;215
Fastidious yet—O! condescend
To range with an advent’rous friend:
Together let us beat the rounds,
St. Giles’s ample blackguard bounds:
Try what th’ accurs’d Short’s Garden yields,220
His bludgeon where the Flash-man wields;
Where female votaries of sin,
With fetid rags and breath of gin,
Like antique statues stand in rows,
Fine fragments sure, but ne’er a nose.225
Let us with calmness ascertain
The liberty of Lewkner’s Lane,
And Cockpit-Alley—Stewart’s Rents,
Where the fleec’d drunkard oft repents.
With Bentley’s13 critical acumen230
Explore the haunts of evil’s Numen;
And in the hundreds of Old Drury,
Descant de legibus Naturæ14.
Let’s prowl the courts of Newton-Street,
Where infamy and murder meet;235
Where Carpmeal15 must with caution tread,
Macmanus tremble for his head,
Jealous look sharp with all his eyes,
And Townshend apprehend surprise;
And having view’d the horrid maze,240
Let’s justify the Planter’s ways.
Lo then, in yonder fragrant isle
Where Nature ever seems to smile,
The cheerful gang16!—the negroes see
Perform the task of industry:
Ev’n at their labour hear them sing,245
While time flies quick on downy wing;
Finish’d the bus’ness of the day,
No human beings are more gay:
Of food, clothes, cleanly lodging sure,
Each has his property secure;250
Their wives and children are protected,
In sickness they are not neglected;
And when old age brings a release,
Their grateful days they end in peace.
But should our Wrongheads have their will,255
Should Parliament approve their bill,
Pernicious as th’ effect would be,
T’ abolish negro slavery,
Such partial freedom would be vain,
Since Love’s strong empire must remain.260
Venus, Czarina of the skies,
Despotick by her killing eyes,
Millions of slaves who don’t complain,
Confess her universal reign:
And Cupid too well-us’d to try265
His bow-string lash, and darts to ply,
Her little Driver still we find,
A wicked rogue, although he’s blind.
Bring me not maxims from the schools;
Experience now my conduct rules;270
O ———! trust thy lover true,
I must and will be slave to you.
Yet I must say—but pr’ythee smile,—
’Twas a hard trip to Paphos isle;
By your keen roving glances caught,275
And to a beauteous tyrant brought;
My head with giddiness turn’d round,
With strongest fetters I was bound;
I fancy from my frame and face,
You thought me of th’ Angola race17:280
You kept me long indeed, my dear,
Between the decks of hope and fear;
But this and all the seasoning o’er,
My blessings I enjoy the more.
Contented with my situation,285
I want but little regulation;
At intervals Chanson à boire
And good old port in my Code noire;
Nor care I when I’ve once begun,
How long I labour, in the sun290
Of your bright eyes!—which beam with joy,
Warm, cheer, enchant, but don’t destroy.
My charming friend! it is full time
To close this argument in rhime;
The rhapsody must now be ended,295
My proposition I’ve defended;
For, Slavery there must ever be,
While we have Mistresses like thee!
Transcriber’s notes
All original spellings and punctuation have been retained, except as noted.
Handwriting
Title page: “By James Boswell, Esq.” is handwritten below “P O E M.”
Erratum: the change of “mighty” to “magick” has been made.
Handwriting
Line 9: “Thurlow” is handwritten above “T——”.
Line 12, footnote 2: “Sedet eternumqre sedebit” corrected to “Sedet
eternumque sedebit”.
Line 27: There is no footnote marker in the original text for footnote 5.
Handwriting
Line 35: “Brown” is handwritten above “B——”.
Line 100: The line numbering is inconsistent.
Line 109: “magick” substituted for “mighty” as specified in the erratum
notice.
A press cutting from The Athenæum of 4th May 1896 was included with
the original. It reads as follows:
A POEM ON THE SLAVE TRADE
BY JAMES BOSWELL
A hitherto unrecognized work by James Boswell was sold a few days
ago by Mr. Salkeld, of Clapham Road. It is in quarto, and the title
is, ‘No Abolition of Slavery: or, the Universal Empire of Love: a
Poem, 1791.’ The authorship appears to have been attributed to
Boswell on the strength of an inscription, “By James Boswell, Esq.,”
in a contemporary handwriting on the title-page, and there is little
doubt that the inscription is correct.
In the volume of Boswelliana edited by the Rev. Charles Rogers for
the Grampian Club there is a letter, written in April, 1791, to Mr.
Dempster by Boswell, who mentions a recently published poem on the
slave trade, written by himself. The editor, in his comments on the
letter, remarks that the work referred to by Boswell is unknown to
bibliographers. Mr. Salkeld’s discovery, though interesting, will
not confer additional lustre on Boswell’s reputation as a bard; but
the poem is characteristic and amusing. It is “Addressed to Miss
——,” perhaps intended for Miss Bagnal, who was occupying his
attention at that time, and is described in one of his letters as
“about seven-and-twenty ... a Ranelagh girl—but of excellent
principles, in so much that she reads prayers to the servants in her
father’s family every Sunday evening.” The merits of the work are
pretty nearly on a level with ‘The Cub at Newmarket’ and other
poetical effusions of the writer. Nothing could be more Boswellian
than the manner in which the subject is treated, and the piece is
full of personal allusions. Now that the authorship of the work is
known, it is probable that other copies will turn up.
Press cutting